Little Morg, some for you," said Olwig's father and she grabbed it and tore at the flesh with her teeth, burning her tongue and her lips with the scalding fat. It was delicious. Morg's stomach was still hollow with hunger. It took barely a minute before she had swallowed the last morsel, and was back for more. She grabbed at another slab. She saw Olwig and Pridoc on the other side of the spit, surrounded by neighbours tearing at the meat, fingers and mouths glistening with fat, laughing in the firelight. Although the villagers occasionally slaughtered their pigs and sheep, it was moons since they had had meat in such abundance. There was more than enough for everyone, with some left over. The bones would be picked clean, then boiled for their goodness before they were carved into spoons and combs. Not one piece of this prize would be wasted.